


Out of the Blue

by siennavie



Category: Flashpoint (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt Spike (Flashpoint)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 15:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4925803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennavie/pseuds/siennavie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: Spike disappears, out of the blue, for a month and reappears, one day, at the SRU building.</p><p>Rating may go up in later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrokenHazelEyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/gifts).



> Prompt came from brokenhazeleyes, so this is for you, girl :) Finally found some mojo last night and I'm hoping it will sustain so I can finish at least one more story for you.

With all teams out on patrol or in field, SRU HQ feels like a ghost town to Constable Amy Foster. The area around her desk has been unusually still and quiet for some time now, with the exception of the chatter over the comms.

That's how she's quick to notice the man slowly nearing her desk. She doesn't recognize him as staff. Her first impression is that there's nothing remarkable about him – Caucasian, average height, skinny, brown hair, angular face. It's only when she asks, "Can I help you, sir?" and the man turns to face her that she gets a sudden chill.

There's a haunted look in those deep brown eyes; sharp, unnatural shadows on his boyish face; and a thick, jagged three-inch scar cutting across one eyebrow into his hairline. 

"Sir, do you need some help?" she slowly repeats, after the man stands there blinking at her for long seconds, as if trying to make sense of her presence. She takes note of the slight twitching in his frame and the occasional scratching at his left arm.

His eyes dart away from hers, first towards the briefing room and then the gym. If he's searching for something, he doesn't find it from the disappointment that dims his face. Another scratch of his arm. Finally, the man turns back to her and stammers: "I—I'm looking for—for Boss."

His voice sounds rough, like he hasn't used it enough...or perhaps, used it too much.

"Boss?" She's only been the main dispatcher at the SRU for two weeks, but she knows there's no one with that actual name; rather, it was a common form of address for superiors. So it strikes her as strange coming from him. "Can you give me a first or last name?"

Creases form in the man's brow. Then he shakes his head side to side and scratches at his arm again, his frustration clear.

"That's okay," she says, soothingly. "Can you tell me what this 'Boss' looks like?"

She didn't think she could ask a worse question, but as she watches, the man's face and shoulders sag even lower beneath some invisible weight.

"It's okay," she blurts out in alarm. "We don't need—"

But she's cut off by the man's muttered, "It's—it's okay." He turns to leave and that's when she jumps out of her seat.

"No! Wait!" she says and dashes around her desk. As she slides to a stop in front of him, she feels a pang of guilt when he flinches and stumbles back against her desk, hands jerked up in front of his chest protectively.

She immediately holds up her hands in a placating gesture and stays very still, hoping the man would understand she meant no harm. Her eyes automatically sweep over him, checking for weapons or anything dangerous. From her seat behind her desk, he had looked deceptively ordinary in a plain white tee. But now, she can see that down below he's wearing loose, blue medical scrub pants and plain white socks over his feet. And just that, no shoes, unless you counted the dirty, paper slippers that looked ready to fall apart.

And then there were the track marks, dotting the arm he had been scratching. Bruising around his wrists is evidence that he had been restrained, and not willingly or comfortably judging by the dried, clotted blood.

 _What happened to you? Where have you been?_ , she wonders as the man starts to relax slightly. His arms ease down, not all the way, but enough to encourage her to try speaking again. She needs to get the man to a hospital, preferably without using force. It looked like the man had suffered enough of that.

She keeps her hands up and says in a calm and measured tone, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. My name is Amy. I want to help you. If you need help, you've come to the right place."

She can see the internal struggle in the man's eyes, fear and uncertainty warring with a fragile hope. He wants to believe her, but it's obvious his recent experience with authority figures hadn't gone over so well. Being assertive would do her no good, so she tries gently appealing to him again.

"Please, I only want to help. I—" She stops before the words _won't hurt you_ can cross her tongue; that's a promise she can't make. "I…can help you find Boss."

The mention of Boss gets a positive reaction. His chin jerks up, hope and longing flaring in his eyes. She holds her breath and, after what feels like interminable seconds, is rewarded with a small nod.

She slowly lowers her arms and breathes a sigh of relief. Plastering on a reassuring smile, she says, "Good. Why don't you take a seat, and then I'll go look for Boss, okay?"

She gestures towards the briefing room and slowly walks towards it, checking at every step that the man was following. This arrangement would allow her to keep an eye on him from her desk while calling local hospitals and combing missing persons reports.

As they approach the sliding metal doors, the man slows, something akin to wonder lighting up the shadows on his face as he takes in the room. But it's not the sweeping view of the city that's enchanted him like she would have expected. Instead, the man is running fingers delicately over the curve of a chair, the surface of the table. And rather than take the closest seat, he walks around to the far side and pulls out a chair in the middle and sits down with a confidence that surprises her. He looks to the front of the room, the chair at the head of the table and repeats: "Boss."

"R-right," she stammers, caught off guard by his sudden change in demeanor. Thinks it's funny how, within the walls of this room, he looks like he belongs.

That's when she hears the heavy footfalls of combat boots and the sound of familiar voices nearby, quickly approaching. It's Team One returning from their call.

Stepping outside, she begins to say, "Sirs—" but is stopped short by the expression on their faces when they reach the briefing room doors.

She's never seen color drain so quickly from skin before. They're all looking past her with varying expressions of shock and disbelief, all of their voices dying abruptly.

In the dead silence, she hears a voice come from inside the room, strong and clear as day: "Boss? I'm sorry I'm late."

And then somehow, Team One's faces go even paler.


End file.
